Robert Ferrigno - Sins of the Assassin

“I still don’t know why we’re going to New Orleans,” said Leo. “We need to get to Tennessee as soon as possible, not waste time with Moseby’s wife.”

“There’s no way Moseby would have left without talking to his wife. They would have had to kill him first. We need to know what he told her.”

“You could have said something. I’m part of this too, you know.” Leo fiddled with the radio, tuning in static more than anything else. “You’re lucky to have me with you.”

Rakkim flipped him the coin. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

Leo held the coin between his thumb and forefinger, spun it round and round. “It’s heavier than I thought.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Leo hefted the coin, rubbed his fingernail along the raw edge. “This big shot you’re interested in is an End-Times Christian. Suddenly you cancel your request for a gold coin, and ask Stevenson for a Roman coin, and it’s got to be silver.” He lightly touched the surface of the shekel. “Wasn’t that hard to see what you were up to. Not like it was non-euclidean geometry. I mean, what good Christian wouldn’t want one of Judas’s thirty pieces of silver?” He handed the coin back. “Your only mistake was you don’t really know your history. Judas got bought off by the priests of the temple, and they didn’t use Roman silver. The only coins accepted at the Jerusalem temple were shekels of Tyre. That’s what Judas walked away with. That’s what you’ve got to show this End-Times gangster in Tennessee.”

Rakkim put the coin away. Glanced over at Leo. “Does anybody other than you know things like that?”

“Most people are pretty stupid…no offense.” Leo tuned the radio again, taking his time. Finally found a station. “I figured it was best if you used the right coin, just in case. To fool somebody else, you have to fool yourself first. That’s the way it works, doesn’t it?”

“That’s the way it works.” Rakkim laughed. “Thanks.”

Leo sang along to the radio, his voice surprisingly strong and sweet. He waited until the song finished before speaking. “Those two Rangers you killed…they had guns, but you only had a knife. So, I guess it was kind of fair.”

“Fairness had nothing to do with it.”

“Just a knife…” Leo sniffed. “Could you teach me how to-”

“No.” Rakkim hesitated. “I thought the whole thing disgusted you.”

“It did, but now when I think about it…” Leo chewed a fingernail. “They were bad, weren’t they?”

“When I pushed their car into the river, I saw at least two more cars down there. So yeah, I’d say they were bad.”

“I learn fast,” said Leo. “You could just show me a couple Fedayeen moves…”

Rakkim’s laughter echoed.

“You’re probably just worried I’ll get better than you, that’s why you don’t want to teach me.” Leo yawned. “Piggly Wiggly Diner,” he said as they passed the sign. “Maybe we should stop and see what they got cooking. I’m hungry.”

“Mr. Moseby.” Colonel Zachary Smitts strode across the field-tent that served as a command center, his uniform still dusty from his recent arrival. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said, shaking hands. “I apologize for keeping y’all waiting this last week, but I had some shitbirds to attend to.” He nodded at Gravenholtz. “Besides, I know Lester here is good company.”

The two guards at the entrance chuckled, then stopped abruptly at the expression on Gravenholtz’s face.

The Colonel led Moseby into the command center, limping slightly. His high black boots were worn but polished to a bright sheen, his tailored gray uniform hugging his lanky frame. Somewhere in his sixties, the Colonel still cut a gallant, if slightly vain, figure with a pair of ivory-handled automatics on his hips, and his long hair dyed too black. One of those backwoods cavaliers Southerners had venerated for two hundred years.

“While I was busy here, these outlaws swooped down on towns under my protection, stealing and raping and murdering,” said the Colonel, handing a videocard to Moseby. “I’m a good Christian, Mr. Moseby, but I won’t abide an insult.”

Moseby saw a sweep of dismal pine trees on the card, men hanging from every limb, arms tied behind their backs as they swayed in the breeze. Every seam in their grimy faces stood out as the high-def images rolled across the card. Close-ups of unshaven men, hatchet-faced crackers in jeans and jackets, eyes bulging, blood crusted around their nostrils. A blue-bottle fly perched on one man’s blackened tongue, gauzy wings shimmering in the dawn’s light.

“Attending to such scum is a wearisome business,” said the Colonel. “Seems like there’s never a shortage of men who need killing.”

“You should have let me take care of them like I asked,” said Gravenholtz, the redhead’s voice shaded with insolence. “No need to bother yourself with such chores.”

“It’s my responsibility,” said the Colonel. “Our folks need to see the face of authority. Need to see that authority exact a swift and certain justice. Besides, you would have taken an unseemly pleasure in the accounting. The idea is to give our enemies nightmares, not our own people.” He winked at Moseby. “In Lester’s case, his bite is even worse than his bark.”

In the field-tent command center, technicians hovered over video monitors in the rear. The faint crackle of voices floated in the night air. Moseby had tried a few times to sneak into the center on one of his late-night excursions, but it was too well guarded. Since Gravenholtz had him brought here a half hour ago, he had memorized the layout, noted potential weaknesses in the security perimeter. From where he stood, he couldn’t see the video screens, but he could hear desperation in the voice leaking from the headset of one of the techs.

“Lester taking good care of you?” said the Colonel.

“Fine,” said Moseby. “I didn’t realize it was a unit tradition for Lester to give the new man a sponge bath, but he insisted.”

The Colonel blinked, then roared with laughter. Banged Moseby on the back.

Moseby saw Gravenholtz rub his knuckles and remembered how the redhead had sledgehammered the shadow warrior.

“Relax, Lester,” said the Colonel. “You got to learn to laugh at yourself.” He squinted at Moseby. “Sponge bath. You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, he’s a Christmas present with a bright red bow,” said Gravenholtz.

The Colonel sat down, propped his boots up on a table. “They say you’re a finder, Mr. Moseby. Are you really as good as I’ve been told?”

Moseby turned his head slightly, tried to see what was on the video screens in the rear, but the angle was off. “I get lucky, that’s all.”

“That’s what they said about me at Memphis, when we sent the towel-heads scurrying back to Kansas.” The Colonel winked at him. “I’ll take a lucky man any day.”

Moseby detected an edge to the Colonel’s easy banter. The man was worried about something, his eyes sliding away, preferring to watch Moseby indirectly, taking his measure at his own pace, without himself being examined. A good tactic. Most men wouldn’t have even been aware of it, lulled into mistakes by the Colonel’s charm.

“You’re not the first finder I brought here, Mr. Moseby,” said the Colonel. “The others came well recommended too, but the task…the mission proved too much for them.”

“Useless fucks,” said Gravenholtz.

“Some of them have worked out better than others, but none of them have really worked out,” said the Colonel, ignoring Gravenholtz. “We’ve opened up a dozen tunnels, got three that still might yield something. I’m an impatient man, John, it’s been my curse, but I’ve made the best of it. I pay top dollar for success, but I have no tolerance for failure. None whatsoever.”